The Fifth Knight(16)

The anger in his voice stopped her noise, and she looked up at him in fear.

“You God-botherers, you’re all the same, with your playacting at being poor,” he said. “Your belt, your beads, your precious habit: most folk could work for a lifetime and still not afford them. Weep and wail over a dress if you like. Folk in the real world save their tears for death and disaster. You should be thanking God you’re still in one piece.”

“Have you gone asleep, Palmer?” Fitzurse appeared around the corner of the stable block.

“No, my lord. Just finishing,” said Palmer, blood still quick from his anger.

Fitzurse stopped in front of the huddled Theodosia. He reached down and roughly raked her short, combed-down hair into dark-blonde tangles around her face. He pushed her from him and she stayed crouched, still hanging on to her holy garments.

“Nicely done, Palmer,” said Fitzurse. “She looks common enough now.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“Now bring her round; the horses are ready.” Fitzurse left them, calling for his own animal.

Palmer looked down at Theodosia. She clung to her clothes, head bent over them, crying and murmuring into them as if they were a dead child. He gave an impatient click and bent to her.

“No,” she cried out as he yanked the bundle from her and threw it behind him.

He pulled her to her feet and jerked his head toward the yard. “Get moving,” he said. “Our horse is waiting.”

Shoulders down, she went past him, stumbling like she took steps in sleep. With her bowed head, tangled hair, and thin wool clothing, she could be any luckless peasant.

Palmer cared not. What happened to her was no concern of his. His task was to get her to Knaresborough Castle, keep her secure there. And do whatever else Fitzurse asked of him.

***

“We’ll pause here for respite.” Fitzurse’s call came from the front of the group of mounted knights.

“Aye, my lord.” Sir Palmer’s response came loud in Theodosia’s ear, and she flinched.

Seated before him on this wide-backed horse, his sinful hold secure on her, she shared every breath he took, every word he spoke.

Fitzurse had called their halt in the midst of thick, deserted woods. Dead leaves surrounded the bases of bare-branched trees, and not even a bird broke the quiet.

Sir Palmer loosed his unwelcome grip on her waist. He dismounted, as did the other knights, landing with a rustle in the thick leaf cover underfoot.

“That stream’s a sight for sore eyes,” De Tracy’s voice bellowed out, as loud as ever. He made his way over to a quiet brook, icy clear in its mossy bed.

“Horses need it.” The huge le Bret led his animal over to join him.

Sir Palmer held his horse steady and jerked his head for Theodosia to climb off. She dropped awkwardly to the ground, where she struggled to balance on deadened legs.

The knight didn’t acknowledge her difficulty, merely waited for her to straighten.

“We all need it,” came Fitzurse’s clear tone as he and de Morville lined up at the water’s edge too.

Theodosia walked beside Palmer as he led his animal to the brook’s edge.

He nodded at the water. “You need to drink something.”

Theodosia bent low and scooped up a palmful of moss-tasting water. She watched the line of the knights’ reflected faces in the water’s surface while they drank their fill and bantered with each other. Her insides coiled afresh. It was as if they were sin made flesh, as if evil itself had taken bodily forms.

The massive le Bret was like the bear of dead sloth, slow and menacing, with a sword as sharp as claws. The red-bearded one, de Tracy, with his bellow of a voice, always blaspheming, for all the world the lion of arrogance. De Morville, whose castle she was being taken to, his spare frame and flaking, horrid skin a reminder of what death would bring. But his eyes were bright like those of the fox of covetousness, always peering, poking, weighing up what everyone else had. Fitzurse, of the blue, blue eyes. Eyes as dead as a snake’s, and a coldness about him that oozed the poison of evil.

She straightened up and folded her arms across her chest to keep from trembling.

Palmer glanced over at her. “Take some more. You’ll need it.”

She shook her head.

“Please yourself.” He helped himself to more.

And Benedict Palmer, the last one of this horrific menagerie. He would be the unicorn of anger, with his heated temper, his quickness of mood, his angry dismissal of her and her sacred calling.

Her calling. She had hidden herself from the world to keep her soul safe. As her beloved Thomas had said to her, “You do not carry a brittle container in an unruly mob. You have to keep a precious vial safe.” But she hadn’t kept her soul safe. Her own uncontrolled emotions had swept in, had her run from her safe hiding place to his side. To what end? For him to be hacked to pieces and for her to deliver herself into the hands of those who killed him. She’d taken that vial and shattered it with her own hands, and all through her sinful disobedience.